What Makes a Hero?
by Pixel Whipped
Summary: When Clint's apartment catches fire, it's up to him to save the neighborhood. But what really makes a hero? Comic heavy.


_You're a hero._

_Clint Barton, do you hear me?_

_You're _my _hero._

Feet planted firmly on the ground, toes spread just slightly, one elbow bent inwards, the other outstretched with a fist. To be fair, both fists were now beating against a wall, but he rarely paid so much attention to notice. It was Fourth of July. Cap's birthday. A day he absolutely _hated_, simply because he wasn't about to go up to the roof and _socialize _with those people who weren't even aware of the monster he was. In all truth, all realities, _Clint Barton was no hero_.

No matter how many times he tried to equate it, justify it, clear it, he couldn't come to terms with any of it. How could he call himself a hero when he was the one who needed the most rescuing? What kind of hero could take a man's life and not even think twice about it? In truth, when children would stop him on the street and ask him _how many have you saved_, he'd always try to quantify in his head that it wasn't about how many he saved. It was about how many he killed. How many of them had families? People who cared about them? How many of them had a grandmother that never would see their poor baby again? How many of those people had he killed in the name of _justice_?

His hand extended a bit harder this time, landing square on the wall with a rather loud thud that rattled the windows. There was a small moment where he stopped to breathe, to remember just how human he was, judging by the immense pain in his knuckles now. For the first time that night, he'd stopped to listen to the fireworks booming off the rooftop; probably set up by Grills before he was killed. He didn't even know Grills name. How do you have the same roommate for years and never know their name? How do you spend so long trying to save a man and then _fail at that, too_? That was when the second fist joined the other and his hands opened up.

Palms first, he braced against the wall, breathing hard. This was _his mess_. All he wanted to do was _save people_, and in the end, he'd destroyed families. He'd ruined lives. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his ears, his fingers dripped blood from his knuckles.

_I should have tried harder..._

_Redeem yourself, asshole._

_Try harder. Try harder. Try harder._

Silencing the demons, he rested his forehead against the cold bricks for a moment, then took a deep breath and turned on his heel to get some coffee. _Try harder_. It was almost two in the morning in Bedstuy, and the fireworks were still going off. Part of him hated it - he often took his hearing aids out so that he wasn't freaking the fuck out thinking of artillery fire every five seconds. Lucky was content as long as he was near his master, though he knew something was wrong. Clint was only vaguely aware that Lucky wasn't nearby anywhere to be found.

Turning around to look for the dog, he clipped his hearing aids in and started to whistle. "Lucky?" Coming around the corner of the kitchen, between the two purple curtains, he found Lucky pawing and whimpering at the door. Kneeling down to scratch his ear, he raised a blonde brow, fingers curling around the dog's ear. "You afraid of the display? It's just fireworks bud. I promise the Russians aren't coming to hurt you again."

Lucky continued pawing at the door, prompting Clint to reach over and open the door. Before he could even stop him, the dog was racing down the hallway and tumbling down the steps. _What the hell, dog?_ He didn't even have time to throw a shirt on over his bare chest covered in bruises and wrapped with a rather tight white ace bandage. Broken, bloodied, and bruised as he was, Clint Barton knew that when his dog ran - you _chased him_. He didn't even bother locking the door behind him; he had nothing worth stealing.

He ran with the dog, following him down the hallway, stumbling down the steps to the second floor of their messy apartment building that he now owned. There was a brief pause where he could hear the sound of fireworks and children's illuminating laughter. He could see the people through one of the many outside windows at the hall, people on their balconies, listening to the festivities outside. And then it dawned on him in the worst way possible. _With all that noise, it would be the perfect time to commit a crime_.

Lucy stopped outside of door number 12B. His small golden paw tried to inch its way under the door, but Clint pulled him away. He looked over at the dog for a moment, his blue eyes saddened by the notion that the dog wanted to help _so badly _that he didn't care what was waiting on the other side of the door. Just barely, over the sound of fireworks, Clint could make out the sound of flesh hitting flesh, likely a cheekbone; and a rather loud shriek. _"HELP! HEEEEELP!"_

And that was all the reason he needed to justify his next act. Avenger or not, he wasn't going to ignore the call of someone needing help. His arm reared back, throwing his entire body into the door. When it didn't give, he tried it once more, but nothing happened. Fuck it; take a page from the book of Natasha Romanoff. Spying a fire extinguisher on the wall nearby, he broke the glass and slammed it into the door handle until it eventually clattered to the floor. Bright red cyllander still in hand, he slammed his unbroken shoulder into the door once more and it popped open to reveal smoke pouring through the house.

_Cough. _"Annie?" _Cough, cough_. "Annie, are you in here?" _You idiot, of course she's in here. And so is someone else; be on your guard. _No bow. Futz. No bow, no sight, just smoke. Thick, dark, black, menacing smoke. "Annie!" Before an answer was given, he heard another shriek, followed by Lucky darting off in the direction of the sound. Lucky was going to die in here. What the hell was Clint saying; he'd probably die in here, too. He followed behind the dog, by way of the kitchen. Digging out a few knives from the drawer, he went off in the direction he saw the dog heading.

Bedrooms. Check the bedrooms. Make sure the kids are out. Leopold and Arthur...get them out first. Mother can wait; she'd always put the kids first. Clint let the dog go, moving methodically down the hallways to the little boy's room. He tried the door and it wouldn't give. _I told them if their daddy came back to lock their doors and let mama and the police handle it..._ Of course they were locked. No give. Sturdy doors; not necessarily a problem, but something to remember about being landlord. He put one of the knives into the doorjamb, then wiggled the handle just slightly until the knife slid down and moved between the door jamb and the door. Kicking it open, he heard crying in the corner and moved quickly and efficiently. "Leo? Art?"

"Mr. Hawk-guy! Where's mama?" Leo, the older brother, came forward from the closet first. His left hand was tightly clutching a baseball bat, his right arm out to keep his brother from coming forward. The three year old was doing his best to get by his brother and run off into the fray. Clint remembered that feeling so well from being a child himself and hearing his mother cry at night. He knelt down and spun the knife around so it was hilt first, handing it to the boy and taking the bat from him. "Is mama okay?" He inquired, taking the knife delicately.

"She will be." The determination in his eyes was enough to show the children he meant what he said. Thankfully there was no backdraft, the summer heat and broken air conditioner meant the window was open. The smoke hadn't really reached the boys yet. His hands braced against Leo's shoulders. "Listen to me, kiddo. Starling is upstairs on the roof with everyone else. Go find her, tell her what's going on. Tell her that daddy will be fine, to call the fireman and that it's in Apartment 12B - second floor. Can you do that for me, Leopold?"

Leo reached out and threw his arms around Clint's shoulders, but it barely phased him. Clint closed his eyes a moment, taking a deep breath and releasing the little boy. "Should I come back?"

"Take Arthur and run. Listen to me, I was you once upon a time. I was you. Remember how you told me you wanted to be a hero like Batman one day? This is where you start. You start by saving people. Your mother would want Arthur safe. She would want _you _safe. So you take that knife, and you take your brother, and you keep him safe until we come back." He ruffled the little boy's hair and smiled. "I promise, I'll bring her back." _I just don't know what kind of condition she'll be in after I find her_...

The little boy nodded and held the knife tightly in one hand, his small hand wrapping around Arthur's other. It was a scene that looked like it was ripped straight out of the memories of when he was a child himself. Clint couldn't help but feel the burning similarities. This kid wanted to do _so much good_. He'd have to remember to introduce him to Nick Fury or Maria Hill sometime. Maybe that would help him on his path to becoming like Batman. As his little feet carried him out of the apartment, followed by the patter of his brother's, Clint felt a sigh of relief escape his body.

_You're a hero._

_You don't get to just stop doing that one day._

_You don't get to go into retirement and live a normal life._

_People know your name, people know your face, and they remember everything you've done. _

_Annie always did have the best advice. Even when I wasn't asking for it, she hit me with that reality I needed to hear most. Sometimes she was better at it than Kate. I gotta find her...I gotta save her... _he quickly unwrapped one of the bandages around his arm where a bullet wound would get infected, caring less and less as he made his way slowly through the house, once he was sure the boys were out of view. He stumbled his way to the bathroom, soaking the wrap quickly, then tying it around his face to try and avoid dying of smoke inhalation - though it was probably also _too late _for that one.

He could hear voices, a woman pleading softly with her husband to stop. Her husband was arguing with her that he wasn't going to stop until she gave up the kids. Clint knew where the boys were hidden; Eddie would never find them. His body slammed into the door where the room was hidden. So many fucking doors. Did these people really need this many doors? Slam.

"Who that?" Eddie demanded.

Clint raised a brow, shaking his head. "Uhh-_police?_"

"Fuck off you fucking liar." Of course Eddie wouldn't fall for that. He was a felon with several abuse charges under his belt. He wasn't a moron.

Clint had to think fast. "Listen, I can tell you who I am, but you're never going to believe me anyway. So why don't we just play it safe and have you open the door and we can talk this over like civilized men before someone dies?"

"Maybe that's what I want." Eddie countered.

That was when the sound came in that broke his heart. It bounced around and echoed in his ears, causing a painful shiver down his spine. It was the voice of a woman who was always upbeat and happy, always full of life - but now it was so broken and scared. "MISTER BARTON! You need to leave! He's going to kill-"

Before she could finish her sentence, Clint had already squarely kicked the door in, reaching down to pick up the broken handle. Holding it in his hand, he looked to Eddie for a brief moment. "Uh...sorry, I'll have the Avengers put it on my tab."

"Who the hell are you? You Luke Cage or something? You don't look like no Avenger." Eddie questioned again, his rotten teeth showing his disregard for dental hygiene.

Clint tossed the knob up into the air once or twice, catching it with expert precision without even having to see it. The fire was spreading; he had to act quick before all of them died. Though losing Eddie wouldn't be any great loss to society right now. "Why does everyone ask me that? Do I look like a black guy? No offense, Annie." Without a second thought, he tossed the knob up one more time and let loose on the backswing, clocking Eddie square in the side of the head. "No. I'm Hawkeye. And I'm retired. Asshole."

As soon as the solid brass connected with Eddie's head, the blood started to trickle down the side of his face, dripping onto the once pristine bed sheets. Did Annie even _sleep_ anymore? He knew she came over to his apartment often for coffee when the boys were asleep, but never sleeping? "Dick! You'll pay for that!"

Clint squared his feet, opened up his arms, and gave a rather cocky grin. Curling his fingers in a _come hither _motion, he nodded. "Come on, big man. Show a real fighter what you've got. Let the lady have a break." Before a hit could be landed on him, Clint ducked and swept a leg out to bring Eddie to the floor. In the same motion, he locked eyes with Annie and nodded. "Run. You know the drill."

Annie scrambled to her feet and disappeared into the smoke. Even if he died there, he knew that he'd saved three lives that day. Four, if he could get Eddie to stop being such a fucking asshole. The fist that connected with his jaw spoke a different story on Eddie's intense need to be saved. "You're just a homewrecker! You ain't no hero!"

"Damn, what does she _see in you_?" He rubbed his jaw for a moment, then rushed at Eddie, grabbing him by the arms and pinning them both to a wall. The fire was just on the other side, licking at the back and heating up intensely through the brick structure. It was the one blessing about it not being wood. "That's funny. Your kids see me as a hero."

"You ain't their daddy!" Eddie growled, his eyes tightly shut so he didn't show that he was in pain from the burning on his body. "You been knockin' about with Annie? Wouldn't surprise me!"

"Your wife is a wholesome woman. She is a wonderful mother, a wonderful soul, and a beautiful person. Even after everything you've done to her, she _still _smiles every morning when she sees me. She still encourages your children to be _superheroes_, even with the grim past most of us have. Honestly, we're nothing. She's the hero of this story." Clint pressed him harder against the wall, one leg between Eddie's to hold him in place, his arm moving up to press against his neck. "You want to see your kids again? Maybe it's time to stop being an ass and ask nicely. But as long as I own this building and your family lives here, you will _never _see them again."

"You'll die here with me." Eddie reared back, spitting in his face, but Clint didn't flinch. "You'll die in this precious building with all of them."

"No, I won't. But you might."

Everything was starting to go blurry. Was this what it felt like to die of toxic poisoning? He could hear the muffled cry of his daughter telling him to get down, but he didn't even notice which direction it was coming from. He pressed into Eddie's throat once more before the two of them tumbled to the floor. Clint woke up only long enough to see Starling standing with her arrow aimed at the spot they once stood, an army of fireman and police officers behind her...and Lucky at her feet, a knife in his teeth. _Everyone was safe_. And then he blacked out.

_You can wallow in self-loathing for the rest of your life, thinking that you did nothing to help the world - _

_but at the end of the day, these people remember your name for doing brave things. _

_For saving the world. _

_For being strong enough to be an Avenger._

Several days later he woke up in a hospital bed, a _very angry_ Natasha standing over his bed. "Two days, Clint." Her arms folded over her chest, she shook her head. "Annie told me what you did for her. You could have died. You already have pneumonia. You beautiful fucking idiot."

"Everyone's alive, right?" He smiled softly with that bird-eating grin. "I'm a hero again, Tasha."

"You idiot! You never _stopped _being a hero. You never had to prove yourself. Now move over." Inching aside for her to get into the bed, Tasha smiled and rested a hand gently on his chest, giving a debriefing on what happened. "Star came to your rescue after the boys and Lucky found her. Annie's over in the next room, and Eddie-Eddie's in jail for good. Arson and attempted manslaughter - three, no, four - counts."

"Good. Everything is right in the world."

"Not everything," She muttered, closing her eyes. "You still don't think you're a hero...but those little boys do. And you'll always be the guy who saved their mommy."

Not once had he questioned his own life...just his ability to save people. And Tasha was right. He didn't think about dying back there. He thought about being a father and losing everything that meant the world to him. That's what made him a hero.


End file.
